The lie sits heavy in my stomach as I follow the stream’s edge.
River-willow grows along the water, its roots trailing like pale fingers in the current. I strip bark and tuck it into my pouch. Blue-moss clings to the stones in damp clusters. Ghost-flower blooms higher up the bank, moon-white petals that bruise into oil when crushed.
I come back to find Zara trying to settle into a position that doesn’t make her face go waxen. Her breathing is shallow. Controlled. Too controlled.
“The surface treatment isn’t enough,” I tell her. “Ghost-flower works best when applied directly to the wing-joint. You’ll need to partial-shift—just the shoulder, just enough to expose the feathers at the break point.”
Fear flickers across her face. “I haven’t tried to shift since I fell. If the wing is?—”
“We need to know either way. And the ghost-flower will ease whatever we find.”
She takes a breath, then another. Closes her eyes. The shift comes slowly, painfully—a ripple of feathers emerging along her right shoulder, not a full wing but the base of one, the joint where flight-muscle anchors to bone. She gasps, lightning sparking weakly across her skin, but holds the partial form.
The feathers are damaged—ruffled and uneven where the break distorted their growth—but present. Not destroyed. That’s something.
“Here.” I kneel beside her and hold out what I have gathered. “This will help.”
She eyes it like it might bite her. “What is that?”
“River-willow, blue-moss, ghost-flower.” I break the stems and crush them between my fingers until they turn into a fragrant paste. The river-willow goes into tea. The blue-moss will help with swelling. The ghost-flower?—
“—goes where?” Her tone is sharp, but I see the moment understanding lands. Her gaze drops to her shoulder, to the line where feather meets skin.
“Applied directly.” My voice comes out too neutral. Too careful. “It works best that way.”
The words hang between us. To apply the ghost-flower properly, I have to touch her. Not just her human skin—the place beneath it. The base of her wing. The vulnerable, intimate hinge no one gets to handle unless they are trusted.
“I can do it myself,” she says automatically, and the lie is as flimsy as mine. Her hands are still bound. Her dominant arm is immobilized. She cannot reach her own shoulder without twisting the break.
I keep my expression flat. “Or you can let me help and actually get some relief. Your choice.”
Her eyes narrow. She looks like she wants to refuse just to prove she can. Then a flare of pain crosses her face and her shoulders sag.
“Fine.” She turns her back to me, exposing the injury. “But if you try anything?—”
I inhale slowly, forcing my pulse down. “Then tell me to stop.”
She goes very still, like she was not expecting that answer.
I set the bowl of water between my knees and dip a ghost-flower feather into the crushed petals until the tip darkens with oil. The smell is strange—sweet at first, then sharp, like a storm about to break.
“I am going to loosen one cuff.” I show her the knot, keep my hands visible. “If you want me off you, push.”
Her throat works. “You do not have to?—”
I tug the binding just enough that she can move her left wrist. “I do.”
She does not say thank you. She just nods once, stiff and proud.
I shift closer, close enough to smell her—ozone and sun-warmed skin, the faint copper of blood beneath the healing stitches. I brace my fingers lightly at her shoulder to steady her and draw the oil along the break line.
She flinches at the first touch. Not away. Into it.
The ghost-flower does what it is supposed to. The pain in the bond dulls, turning from a blade into a distant pressure. Zara exhales a shaky breath that sounds like relief.
“Better?” I ask.
“Do not get smug,” she mutters, but her voice is already softer.
